


Solid and Solitude

by DarlingDearestDemonic



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: 221B Drama!, Johnlock Tragedy, Love/Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingDearestDemonic/pseuds/DarlingDearestDemonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock doesn't have friends. Why now, then, does he suddenly want a husband?" A darker side to the romantic theory of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Finally, it was happening. Without so much as a warning or a respectful pause in which he could have readied himself, things were unfolding beneath his very feet. He would have liked to say that it made him dizzy for then, at least, he would have felt something. But as John Watson stood in front of the wide mirror surveying his expression for emotion he had to admit that he felt nothing.           

                Well nothing, that is, except for a slight annoyance. His bowtie was too tight, his suit was too hot, and every individual follicle of hair on his head was revolting against the product that he had put in it early that morning. He watched as two hands in the mirror slowly rose and tugged impatiently at his bowtie. Suddenly the bowtie was yanked off and tossed on the bureau. John groaned, dropped his head, and placed both hands against the polished wood (it had swirling, arabesque patterns dotted with tendril-spewing flowers, implicitly meant for the comfort of a nervous bride.) Was he the bride, then? Was that what the universe was implying?

                He raised his head again and smiled at himself in the mirror. Beneath the decorative florescent lights his face looked powdery and pale, the true face of a fatigued man from war. He bared his teeth and the ‘smile’ became a pantomime grimace.

                “Feel something, feel something,” he said through his teeth. “You’re happy, aren’t you? It’s your big day. It’s your-”

                “Knock, knock?”

                The image of Mycroft appeared on the edge of the mirror. John tried quickly to rearrange his face into something resembling normal but it was too late. The man had seen his facial exhibitions. Mycroft squinted his eyes and tilted his head.

                “I hope I’m not disturbing anything…important?”

                “No, come on in. I was just, uh, inspecting my teeth.”

                “Ah.”    

                Without waiting for further instruction Mycroft adjusted his coat and took a seat on the couch behind John. His legs crossed daintily and he held his cane upright beside his leg. The church where the event was taking place laid claim to a wonderful theatre company. Though they solely performed reenactments of religious importance their taste in props and costumes bordered on sinfully indulgent. The room where John had chosen to get dressed was the storage room where they kept their various theatrical decorations. As it was, Mycroft had chosen to sit on a couch meant for the King Solomon. With the velvet cushions and golden embroideries Mycroft could have been royalty. _Which he is, in a way,_ John reminded himself with some envy, _all he needs is a crowd_.

                As if sensing his thoughts Mycroft shifted into a more business-like posture and regaled him with a no-nonsense eye. “Are you nervous?” His tone was more interrogative than comforting. John shrugged and gave a noncommittal laugh.

                “What’s there to be nervous about?”

                “You’re marrying my brother.”

                “Do I hear you volunteering to take my place?”

                Though the corners of his lips had lifted, Mycroft was not smiling. “And here you were supposed to balance him out with your maturity.”

                “What’s that supposed to mean?”

                “Nothing.”                 John turned back to the mirror and busied himself with nothing in particular. He was suddenly aware of how very quiet it was in the room save for the ponderous _thunk thunk thunk_ of Mycroft’s cane against the floor. Once, maybe as recent as a few days ago, this room must have been filled with the sound of laughter and eager whispering. He imagined a flock of bridesmaids done up in lavender, picking and fussing over a spectacular woman dressed in white. In his daydream they wore perfume – something musky and flowery at once, pungent spring flowers and warm summer oak – and had precisely shaped nails with pink undertones. Slowly, without realizing it, he traced the edge of the bureau wondering if the bride before him had done the same, leaving her spring-and-summer scent on everything that she touched. That magic was gone now and he was left in a cluttered room, stuffy and silent save for the privileged fidgeting of Mycroft and the faint scent of what once was lingering in the air. The realization made him unexpectedly depressed.

                “Why a wedding?” Mycroft said curiously. John turned to look at him. He was examining the tip of his cane with utmost interest as if it had brought the question to his mind.

                “Excuse me?”

                “It doesn’t seem very much like Sherlock. Domestic partnership, yes. Long-term unofficial relationships, yes. But a wedding…”

                “He’s changed.” John said brusquely. _I’ve changed him_ , he wanted to add but the look in Mycroft’s eye when he turned to him proved that he knew John’s heart already. John was thinking about the night when he had found Sherlock on the bench at the fair. The air had been cold then, Sherlock’s skin colder as John felt for his pulse. Lights had been flashing everywhere, bouncing off of his buttons, playing tricks on his skin, reflected in his eyes when he looked at John with that matter-of-factly gaze.

                “I know about that night,” Mycroft said quietly. John turned away and cleared his throat. “You’re a doctor. It’s only natural that you’d want to heal everyone. But let me ask you this, Dr. Watson, how many times have you brought a patient home with you, let them share your bed, maybe, and eat off of your prized dishes? Not that you’d have any in that flat of yours, I’m sure. But how many times have you really let one in only to realize that they you were only ever a means to an end: a doctor who gave them what they wanted and more of his own free will?”

                “If there’s a point to this…”

                “Only this: be careful. Sherlock doesn’t have friends. Why now, then, does he suddenly want a husband?”

                Mycroft sighed as if he’d been waiting weeks to get that off of his chest (which, John didn’t doubt, he probably had) and stood up. With a general well-wishing and good-daying he exited the room with the same pomp and self-assurance that had brought him in. John mentally cursed him, glad to finally be able to feel annoyed by him on the grounds that he was going to be his brother in law. Otherwise his generally sour reception of Mycroft could have been considered empty.

                The church bell rung and with a sudden panic John realized that it had begun. His heart fluttered within him but still he kept a calm façade. Surely he’d be able to trick everyone into thinking that he was ecstatic underneath but, as they would expect of him, still cool-headed as a soldier under times of stress. Steadily, he reached for his bowtie. Only then did he noticed that his hands were shaking furiously, too furious, in fact for him to do anything more than toss the bowtie away.

#

                An hour later found John standing at the altar, his hands clasped neatly before him. Though he tried to keep his mind blank the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s voice forced its way into his head. She sat in the front row, dabbing away at her nose while muttering a string of emotional commentary that ranged from the color of his suit (‘Very suave, it makes him look a bit fresher’) to her much unappreciated premonitions (‘I knew that John was the one for ‘im the minute he set foot in the flat.’) Perhaps it hadn’t been in their best interest to place her in the front where her animated storytelling and peacock-inspired ensemble seemed to dominate the proceedings. Still, John was grateful. In the large, stone chapel with its concaved wall and splashes of dramatically crimson religion, her motherly rambling was the only thing that felt familiar to him.

                Only a few minutes ago the flower girl had pitched a fit and flung her basket on the floor, claiming that the man with the funny cheeks had promised that there would be a dead body there. The priest that now swayed happily behind him had actually been a participant in one of their cases. If John remembered correctly, he had almost beheaded a woman. And if dear, sweet Molly had not intervened he was sure that the small crowd that had gathered there would not have thought twice about skipping the event. Sherlock had wanted to word the invitations in a rather put-offish way and John, being at the end of the line, had almost let him get away with it.

                A low, violin note suddenly sounded from the speakers and the crowd turned eagerly towards the entrance. John straightened his shoulders and tried to smile but his heart was beating so fast that his lips twitched indecisively along with it. Slowly, a shadow stretched out from behind the chrysanthemum-strewn archway. It grew and grew, rolling out before the man like a carpet, until finally Sherlock rounded the corner. His face was set in a respectfully solemn expression but nothing could mask the alertness of his eyes. They moved from one thing to the next as if he was sensing the presence of a powerful being hiding somewhere in the shadow (not God, of course, but a human adversary with a freakish underworld title.) The line formed by his lips grew straighter as the crowd erupted into giggles. There, leaning lovingly on his arm, was Sherlock’s father. Even John had to stifle a laugh. Never, under any other circumstance, would Sherlock have dared to be caught in such an embarrassing display of father-son tradition. His father, for his part, looked as merry as a schoolboy in a candy shop. Finally, the son who they all believed to be doomed to a life of morbid solitude was getting married…to a man, as it was! John wondered if the look of mischeivity that he cast his wife ran along the same vein as Mrs. Hudson’s ‘I told you so’ wails. His own parents hadn’t been so thrilled about the arrangement and, try as he might, John could not ignore the two glaringly empty seat that sat before his family’s portion of the seating arrangement. It seemed like a hundred camera lights flashed at once and a woman stood from her chair to toss white rose petals Sherlock’s way. Sherlock flinched and demanded that she stop that at once but the damage had been done. Petals, like white jewels, cascaded from his curly black locks and onto his lapel.

                “Oh, lookit ‘im! Jus’ look” Mrs. Hudson said. “Isn’t he so _handsome_?” Suddenly she gave a loud hiccup and buried her nose in the coat of a grimacing Lestrade. But as much as John peered and squinted he could not see the beauty in Sherlock. No, he looked like he did every day when he was berating John’s writing or studying a troublesome chemical. He didn’t look like a husband to be. He just looked like John’s flatmate.

                Finally, he reached the altar and after having disentangled himself from his grinning father, Sherlock joined John at the top of the stairs. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye with a look that read all too well ‘if you ever mention this again, I’ll kill us both.’

                “Dearly beloved!” The vicar began in a voice that seemed to set the tassels hanging from the ceiling aflutter with fright. “And vehemently unbeloved! And those who are warmly unconsidered but politely invited anyway. We are gathered here today, forcibly or not, intoxicated or sober…”

                Sherlock nudged him. “Nervous?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth. John sighed and dropped his head in exasperation. Sherlock and Mycroft had the uncanny ability of being so similar and so different at once. When he raised his head again the vicar was going off on a passionate tangent about marital obedience and his own personal guilt.

                “Nervous,” he repeated just as quietly, though with more emotion, “no, why would I be nervous? Actually, no, I take that back. Yes, Sherlock, I’m very nervous.”

                “Why?”

                “Because this is our _wedding_.” The vicar stopped and glared at him. In the sudden silence that followed John felt very childish. He grinned sheepishly and the vicar resumed his tirade. John whispered, “For all I know you’ll be wanting to adopt a kid next.”

                “Do you have something against kids?” Sherlock whispered back. “Pity. I had my eye on one.”

                “Oh my god...”

                “A little American girl named Bobby. I’ve already started the adoption process, I hope you don’t mind.”               

                “Sherlock…”

                “I was thinking we could all have Sunday dinners-”

                “Sherlock…”

                “Walks on the beach. Couple’s counseling. I’ll call you ‘honey bear’ and you’ll call me ‘sugar plum.’”

                They couldn’t help it. The two men were suddenly caught in a fit of giggles that could not be suppressed no matter how hard they tried. The vicar slammed his hand into the pulpit and proclaimed that he was trying to do something here, god damn them all! The congregation suddenly became very restless and after many promises and bribes from John the vicar resumed his speech. And Sherlock’s lips remained slanted at the corners.

                _So this is how it’s going to be_ , John thought as the procession commenced. Molly looked as if she were about to burst, Mycroft had dosed off with his arms crossed in front of his chest, and the vicar was steadily raising his voice over the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s welsh ballads. It was all so odd and as he said his vows and exchanged rings he seemed to be floating above it all, watching his marriage with a humorous eye. This was how his life with Sherlock was going to be: odd, loud, discordant, familiar. And, really had he expected any different? He would have been worried if their wedding was normal because normal was a word seldom used by them. But nothing was going to change, really. That much was obvious to him as Sherlock hissed over the irony of the melting unity candle. Yes, for all that mattered they would still be the same old flat mates. Only this time they would wear rings on their fingers and John would have saved Sherlock’s life.

                John hadn’t realized that he was lost in his thoughts until he turned and found the vicar grinning at him nastily.

                “Sorry?” he said and the vicar rolled his eyes.

                “I said kiss the man!”

                “Oh! Right, yeah. I knew that. Okay,” John turned to face Sherlock, his hands waving and clenching at his sides. He was aware of the camerawoman poised eagerly at the steps and Mycroft suddenly sitting wide awake in the back aisle. He inhaled deeply – taking in the familiar scent of Sherlock as he did – and, holding his breath, placed a soft peck on Sherlock’s unresponsive lips.

                There. He leaned back with a sigh, satisfied to have gotten that done with. The camerawoman was looking between him and Sherlock with confusion, her camera poised hesitantly before her as if to say, ‘that was it?’ John was about to turn to her and explain that yes, that was it and who had hired her, anyway when Sherlock called his name in a soft voice. He turned for the second time to find Sherlock gazing at him with that oh-so-uncomfortable reptilian gaze.

                “Wha-” his mouth fell open. Sherlock, ever the gracious being, grabbed his coat collar and pulled him in close. His eyes were like sunlight over tar.        

                “Kiss me like you mean it.”

                _Oh my, oh my_ , John thought as Sherlock took advantage of his parted lips, right then and there in front of everybody. The crowd gave a collected sigh and white hot fireworks exploded on the edge of his vision. These were caused by the camera’s flashing about him. Head pounding, he pulled away with an embarrassed laugh and waved his hand at the crowd.

                “Yeah, no everything’s all right. I can breathe, don’t worry.”

                The crowd laughed at that. The vicar, having suddenly seen the light of closure, loudly presented the newly married couple, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

                “May your lives be full and bodies with head,” he said with a bow of his own balding head. But no one heard him then as the couple had started down the aisle, one foot before the other on the blood red carpet unfurling like a great, wet tongue towards their future.

#

                John was not to have a wedding night that night, which was both a blessing and a pity to him as he had prepared a speech especially for the occasion. “Sherlock,” he had recited to the mirror with a bottle of champagne in hand. He hiccupped, cleared his throat, and then started all over again. “I know you’re my husband now and I like – no, I love you very much but I’d rather we save our consu…consummation for a later date. I’m not feeling well.”

                He felt like one of those women on the blue pill commercials who made excuses to their husbands not yet knowing that they had discovered the miracle of Viagra. He winced and try again.

                “Sherlock, if you touch me I will bring this bottle down on your head right now.”

                That was more like it. He fell into the plush hotel bed with a sigh, conscious of every second that went by as he waited for him. He got to taking larger sips from the bottle, mentally cursing himself each time, so that by the time Molly came around and bid him goodnight (having realized which night it was she suddenly blushed and excused herself) he was lying on his back, singing lazy welsh ballads to the ceiling light. That was how Sherlock found him: his hair rumpled, stamping his legs impatiently against the headboard.

                “Sherlock!” He sat up quickly, regretted his decision, and fell back down with a groan. The words that he had been planning skipped and collided in his head.

                “So sorry, John, but I must go out tonight,” Sherlock said as sweetly as he could which, in John’s opinion, wasn’t very sweet at all.

                “Salty,” he mumbled. Sherlock’s brows came together.

                “What?”

                “It’s your voice…um, nothing. Where are you going, again?”

                Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead he walked over to the bed with a determined look in his eye. Before John could complain he had grabbed his face in his hands and was kissing him slowly, seemingly savoring every moment.

                “I love you,” Sherlock said with a certain finality that left no room for contradiction. And all that John could do was repeat the words back to him. Sherlock smiled and without another word disappeared in a whirl of black, white, and grey. John lay back in bed. He suddenly felt very satiated. He would have loved to bask in this feeling until the morning light shone through the window but Mycroft’s voice, like an ugly snake, reared itself to life in his head.

                “What kind of man leaves his husband drunk and alone on their wedding night?”

                “Go to hell, Mycroft,” John muttered into his pillow. The words hung still for a moment in the air around him and then fell back down on nobody’s ears but his own.

               

               

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“John…John…..John! JOHN! Johnjohnjohnjohn…John… _Hami_ -”

“DON’T…you…dare.”

“- _Hamish_ Watson.”

                The shower handle gave an angry squeak. A door slammed and John marched into the living room, a fuzzy towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist. He stared at Sherlock a moment with wrath written all over his wet face and then jabbed a toothbrush in the direction of the bathroom. “I was in the shower!”

                “I know.”

                “…what is it?”

                “Grab that cell phone there. I need you to make a call.”

                John stared at the coffee table where the phone sat and then back at him. The table was less than three feet away from Sherlock. “I was in the _shower_ ,” he tried again

                “I know.”

`               “…I was _naked_.”

                “Mm, yes. I deduced that much.” Sherlock looked up from his laptop and eyed the spot where John had clutched the towel to his waist. Grinning, Sherlock watched as his blushing husband stomped over to the table and snatched up the phone. The smell of pancakes wafted in from the kitchen as did the sound of bacon as it sizzled and popped in a tantalizing way. John plopped down on the couch and mentally blessed the family-based cooking magazines that often inspired bursts of enriching motherhood in Mrs. Hudson, despite the fact that she wasn’t their housekeeper.

                “Alright. Who do you want me to call?”

                “The number there on the mantel. It’s on the green post-it note. If a woman answers I want you to say, ‘I know where you’re hiding it’ and then tell me her response.”

                “I suppose you couldn’t do it, then?” John asked, dialing the number. Sherlock shook his head.

                “No. She’ll get suspicious and immediately clam up if she hears the sound of my voice again. Yours will take her by surprise. She’ll slip up and admit to something.”

                John sighed and looked up at the ceiling as he listened to the dial tone. A woman with a heavy Hispanic accent answered on the fifth ring and John relayed that he ‘knew where she was hiding it.’ The woman asked him what, in the devil’s name, ‘it’ _was_ and he looked to Sherlock for a response. But the man had gone back to his computer, his fingers tented beneath his chin as he browsed some website. John hurriedly thanked her for her time and hung up the phone.

                “I knew it,” Sherlock said.

                “Knew what?”

                “She’s guarded, very guarded. If she was hiding something she would have panicked and broken character for a second.”

                “Ah. And this is for a case?”

                “Spot-on, Watson, spot-on.”

                “Oh, _shut up_.”

                John trudged back to the bathroom to finish his shower. As he reached the door he upset a cup of cold coffee that he had not noticed on the way in before. It had been set there by Sherlock when he had first gotten in. He smiled as he picked it up. The taste was awful: bitter and slightly syrupy (he wouldn’t put it past the man to try and please him with a new, exotic flavor) and he was forced to dump the rest down the drain. It saddened him to have to do so – wasn’t that a spousal thing? Coffee exchanges was one of those subliminal messages of devotion – but he would just have to make a big show of having enjoyed it when he returned.

                It had been three months since their marriage and, as John had predicted, things had returned to relative normality. He didn’t think that he would be able to endure a conventional partnership with Sherlock for the simple thought of physical intimacy still made him feel funny. It just wasn’t like the Sherlock to reach out and grab him, to hold his hand in public or initiate anything more than a slight kiss on the cheek before bed. John had been surprised when a woman, having heard of the wedding from some yet undiscovered source, had stopped him on his way into the grocery store.

                “So you’re married to the Big S.H., are you?” She had said with a riveting smile, “And by S.H. I do mean shit head.”

                “I don’t know anything about a shit head but, yes, I am married to Sherlock Holmes.”

                “Excellent! Tell me, does he still like to have his nipples squeezed in bed?”

                “What?”

                “Oh,” she whipped her hair over her shoulder and gazed behind him as if recalling some sweeter memory. “M’name’s Misses Starks. We used to date, see, and things would get really hot in the bedroom. Where did you think he used to go on all of those Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights? Definitely not a social-capabilities convention, I’ll tell you that. Those were the day when I got off of work early. You know, we used to-”

                “Uh, thank you, I’ve got to go and buy nipples – I mean, groceries – now. Good bye.”

                He had googled her name that night and was not surprised to see that she was related to one of the families that Sherlock had worked for on a case. At the time Sherlock had told him that he had gained inside access to the family’s secrets with his ‘persuasion.’ John had thought that he was casually implying violence, which was not really uncommon, but had then realized that Sherlock had been persuasive in other ways. A few days later over dinner in a small café he had quietly asked if Sherlock did, indeed, like to have his nipples squeezed. And Sherlock had quietly informed him that the shrimp primavera there was particularly satisfying, if he was willing to try it.

                But there had been little things that had taken the place of strong physical intimacy: an extra mug of coffee in the morning, referential texts that, once decoded, spelled out messages of commitment and careful confessions, strolls in the late hours of London where the wind was just cold enough to bring them closer together. ‘Puppy love,’ Mrs. Hudson called it but John liked to think of it as them taking it easy. And he did not want to go back to whatever platonic relationship they once had.

                Maybe, maybe, maybe he truly did love Sherlock. Not in full yet but it was there, growing in him somewhere.

                Dressed, his stomach rumbling at the thought of the food cooking in the kitchen, he stepped out of the bathroom and snatched up a newspaper from the front hall. The full-color picture on the front page made him stop and groan. “Did you see this morning’s papers?”

                “Yep.”

                “There are pictures of our wedding all over it. Look,” he hurriedly ruffled the pages, his stomach churning in embarrassment, “pages one, pages two, pages – I don’t think they’re even allowed to do that!”

                “Mm. That camerawoman. I knew I couldn’t trust her.”

                “Too late for that now. There’s a picture of you eating my face on almost every doorstep in London.” This much was true as the editors had chosen the wedding kiss as their front-page feature. Surprisingly, Sherlock did not seem the least bit concerned as he was still studying whatever was on his computer screen. John sighed and, folding his arms, placed himself behind his chair.

                “So what’s the case, then?”

                “Oh, your readers will love it: an exploration of the unimaginable. A ghost story! Ooooh…”

                “Funny. I thought you said we weren’t doing any more ‘ghost’ cases. They’re the most obvious, that’s what you said.”

                “Um, John,” Sherlock turned in his seat and looked up with him with a strange expression. He kept his fingers pressed together as he pointed them John’s way, emphasizing every word with a shake of his hands – never a good sign. “I’m cutting down on the case load.”

                “What? Can we afford that?”

                “Yes.”

                “Yes?” John stared at him. He had answered much too quickly for his liking. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to actually own over a million dollars but see it as something that was ‘not important.’ “Exactly how much are you making from your extra cases?”

                Sherlock muttered something incoherent and then said in a slightly angry voice, “That’s not important. The important part is –”

                “Hold on. Why are you now suddenly talking about cutting down on the case load? I thought –”

                “John! I am trying to tell you-” 

                “PANCAKES ARE READY!”

                John spun around as simultaneously Sherlock twisted in his seat to face the newcomer. It had not been Mrs. Hudson making breakfast but rather a young girl of about seven with sparse blonde hair and powder pale skin. She was wearing Sherlock’s velvet blue robe (tied clumsily at the waist) and as she walked towards them with a plate of tottering pancakes on her head she was careful not to tread on the hem as it swirled around her stockinged feet.

                “Hello missus John!” She exclaimed when she saw John’s shocked face. All in all there had to be about seven teeth missing from her tiny mouth.

                “Hello sweetheart,” John said in surprise. It suddenly occurred to him that if she was there the people that she had come with must have been somewhere in the flat, too, and he was embarrassed to think that they might have heard his shower conversation with Sherlock. And yet he saw no signs of having other guests other than a small grey travel bag by the doorway and a pair of white children’s shoes. Sherlock was looking up at him again though this time John could see that he was slightly worried about something. He suddenly felt like an overlarge balloon and whatever Sherlock had to say next was going to be the needle that did him in. “What…uh…what’s the flower girl from our wedding doing here?” A rather disconcerting thought flashed across his mind and he fixed his husband with a serious gaze. “Sherlock, if you are into anything illegal I’m afraid I’m going to have to…”

                “What? No! No, _no_! John, what is the matter with you? It’s nothing like that!” It was impossible for Sherlock to look more disgusted and John, aware of the fact that he had implied something not only offensive but wholly irrelevant to Sherlock, bowed his head and raised his hands in resignation. “No,” Sherlock said and hopped up from his chair. He went to the window and looked out for a moment upon London’s streets before turning back to them with a calm expression. His hands slid into his pockets.

                “John, this is Bobby. Bobby, this is John.”

                “Bobby…Bobby…” John looked at the wispy-haired angel beside him and then up at Sherlock. Realization dawn on him and then, just like that, jabbed his conscience like the feared hot needle. “ _You actually adopted a little American girl?_ ”

                “John, wait-”

                “No don’t tell me to wait! You can’t be serious,” John was yelling, the strain of his anger making him dizzy and light headed. “You _cannot_ be serious on this one, Sherlock! Tell me this is a joke!”

                “I wouldn’t take it so far. John, listen-” Sherlock jumped over the couch and ran up to John. He put both hands on his cheeks and forced him to look into his eyes. It took everything that John had to keep himself from punching the man. If it had not been for the child in the room he would have done so. Yet again, if the child had not appeared in the room he would not have had to. Slowly, Sherlock began to spin him around on the spot. “Listen. Listen to me. I know you. You are an uncommonly kind and caring human being. After saving hundreds of lives in war you still had the heart and patience to save mine and God knows why anyone would truly want to do that. I know it’s too much to ask but because, as always, you are selfless while I remain selfish I’m going to have to ask you to do it one more time again. Just help me save one more life.” Sherlock’s hands fell away from his face. No longer angry but suddenly very weary and subdued, he dropped Sherlock’s gaze and looked at Bobby. She was standing on one foot and trying to eat the pancakes atop her head with a bent spork. This time Sherlock _had_ gone too far and John told him so, though not with half as much anger as had inspired him before. Already the emotion was draining out of him and a sense of failure was beginning to take place. Where had he gone wrong, he wondered to himself. Somewhere along the line he must have made a mistake in order to have ended up here. Maybe if he had not laughed when Sherlock had given him a hint about Bobby, maybe if he had not reprimanded Sherlock once for being so intimidating whilst asking a child questions about a case, maybe if he hadn’t married Sherlock in the first place….

                Sherlock cleared his throat and looked around the room as if he were a lion stuck in a space closing in. Having spotted the answer to his search, he pounced upon the desk, scattering precious papers, and retrieved for John a glossy marriage magazine .

                “Page 42,” he said in a toneless voice. John turned to the page and read it silently to himself.

                _…the presence of a child in the life of a couple is both a blessing and a learning experience. Many couples have admitted that they have grown closer together in raising their son and/or daughter. Bob Nevins says, ‘I learned a lot about my wife when we had our first child. And what I have learned has brought she and I closer together as we raised this beautiful baby boy.’ Rebecca Fox also has to say, “the fact that William was ecstatic to raise Lily with me showed me that his devotion had reached a new level-’_

“If you take away the adjectives it substitutes as sufficient field research.”

                “Field research,” John repeated, looking up at him. “You’re doing field research…for our marriage.”

                Sherlock scoffed. “John, look at me. What would a man like me know about proving to someone that they love them?”

                _I suppose you’re right_ , John thought with a sudden pang of pity. He was reminded of a story that Mycroft had told him. When the two boys were in high school the school had held an event in which the students would send valentines in the mail both locally and internationally. On Valentine’s day, as Mycroft had eloquently told it, kids everywhere were receiving pink-dotted proclamations of short-lived love. But all that Sherlock had received was a gray envelope from the local crime column demanding that she stopped sending them letters.

                “Where did she come from, anyway?” John asked, watching the child spin on her toes.

                “An anonymous underground child network. They’re more than happy to sell a child for any amount of money that they can get their filthy hands on.”

                “Oh,” John rubbed his forehead with his palm and gave a long, indulgent exhale. He brought his hands to his lips and breathed in. “I’m not ready to be a dad,” he said decisively, though the words felt hollow and somewhat untrue to him. “That’s it. I’m not ready.”

                “It’s okay if you don’t love me, missus John,” Bobby said suddenly. Having procured a piece of pancake with her spork she was sat on the floor, sucking the syrupy end with satisfaction. “My mummy didn’t love me none neither. Mister Carraway said she ran away to ha-lee-wood so that Uncle Harold could give her new boobies. Sho-lock? What are boobies?”

                “It’s what the giant anthropomorphic turkey lord gives to men who don’t exercise after Thanksgiving. Come here.” Skeptical, Bobby marched toward him with the plate of cold pancakes cradled proudly before her. Her arms barely covered the circumference of the plate. She clambered onto his lap without hesitation and held the plate beneath his nose. “What’s on the menu?” He asked in a serious voice.

                “I used the microwave for make chocolate chip pancakes!”

                “Mmm. Not really my sort of thing…”

                “I mean…roly-poly-oly pancakes with grub bugs and worms!”

                “That’s more like it.” Sherlock took a bite, winced, and then nodded. “Delicious. Bobby, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

                Cackling, Bobby took her plate and ran into the kitchen to complete the rest of her meal. John laughed and folded his arms across his chest.

                “Huh,” he said as he watched Sherlock hunt for a drink.

                “Don’t do that. Why are you making that noise? Ugh,” he took a sip from a forgotten coffee mug, choked, and then spat a greyish mixture of undercooked pancake and old coffee back into the mug.

                “I just would have never put you down as the roly-poly-oly pancake type, that’s all.”

                “It’s an acquired taste.” Sherlock rasped. “Good lord. John, we _must_ teach that child how to distinguish between pill bugs and rocks.”

                _Assuming that she stays here_ , John thought, _but then again where else can she go?_ He supposed that they could help to ingratiate her back into the legal system. She could be reestablished, readopted, re-assimilated into another life. Yes, that’s what they would have to do. He felt a slight tug on his leg and looked down into a pair of dark eyes. Bobby reached her hands towards and without thinking about it John slid his hands beneath her arms and lifted her up.

                “Missus John,” she said, once she had found a comfortable perch on his arm, “are you a boy? Or are you a girl?”

                “I’m a boy,” John looked down at Sherlock, “tell me about this new case.” Which, of course, was his way of saying we’ll talk about Bobby later. Sherlock smiled.

                “August 26th Missy Taylor, the daughter of a wealthy family, tells her mother that she wants to find closure with someone that she has not seen in two years. As she leaves the mother detects a faint scent of cigarette smoke which leads her to believe that her daughter has picked up a habit that had been dropped only recently – this is important. On the very same night the daughter is found dead along with her ex-boyfriend Jonathan Wright, a much less affluent petty criminal of the charming, dastardly sort. They had both died when the shack that the family used for camping every year caught on fire. They had been trapped inside when it happened.”

                “The cigarette…” John said. Bobby was fast asleep on his shoulder.

                “Exactly. A wooden structure, dry grass at this time of year, burning embers, an amateur smoker who is nervous about meeting the one that she used to love – it all added up. Their bodies were burned beyond recognition. A week after the event you –” Sherlock swung a finger his way, “you enter the Taylor residence and begin to move things in the deceased’s room without the family’s knowledge: a clock here, a portrait there. Brilliantly, it’s just enough to warrant the eldest sibling’s attention in the and at the same time appear trivial to the observation of Scotland Yard. You do this once every week for a month and then gradually escalate to once a day, everyday, going so far as to upset the cameras and escape even the sister’s detection. Question is…who are you?”

                It took a few seconds for John to realize that Sherlock was speaking hypothetically and not actually accusing him of anything. He shrugged, his imagination sufficiently aroused by Sherlock’s hands-on scenario. “I’m a thief.”

                “Nothing was stolen.”

                “Okay. You said the family was wealthy so at some point they might have stepped on some toes. So in that case I’m somebody who they have angered in the past, which means that I am taunting them at a time when they are most vulnerable.”

                “The house is guarded by three loyal German shepherds and a father who is a renowned hunter. Add to that the Taylors have almost every judicial office in their pocket and taunting becomes a fatal luxury.”

                “Is there a history of mental illness in the family? I mean, it’s possibly that such a tragic event could have caused something to snap in a family member who had a slightly unstable mental disposition. Which would in turn cause them to do things that they’d have no recollection of later on, as in move objects around.”

                “John Watson, I _love_ you.” Sherlock grabbed the neckline of his shirt and pulled him down into an uncomfortable kiss. When John rose he still wasn’t sure what he had done to inspire such an outburst. Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened. “It’s amazing how much old money gossip can relay. Several close friends of the family attested to the mental health of the Taylor generations.”

                “So who am I, then?”

                “Well, John, if the highly over-reactive imagination of the Taylor family is to be believed, you are the ghost of Missy Taylor.”

                “I’m a ghost.”

                “Yes,” Sherlock suddenly got a strange look on his face. “Well, not you, but-”

                “Yeah, I know. Missy Taylor’s ghost. Got it.” John suddenly shifted the slumbering child on his arm and thought it his paternal duty to give her a more comfortable space to rest. After asking Sherlock where she was to sleep and receiving the surprising answer that Sherlock had decided to give up his room for her (reasonably, considering the fact that the two men had taken to sharing John’s room,) John turned and began to make his way to Sherlock’s room.

                “Mrs. Hudson has volunteered to settle Bobby into daycare tomorrow. I do believe that woman thinks that she’s her mother. I was planning on visiting Missy Taylor’s sister in the morning. Seeing as this may be my last case for a while…”

                “What?” John smiled and turned around.

                “And seeing as we’re happily married…”

                “Go on…”

                Sherlock paused and then said with a snarky grin, “Well, I should think I wouldn’t have to _ask_.”

                “No,” John turned away and began to climb the stairs. But, as odd as it would have made him feel only three months ago, he still felt inclined to say over his shoulder, “I’d much rather you beg.”

 

 

               

 

               

               

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Flashback…_

“Hello? Hello? Sherlock, can you hear me? Hello!? For God’s sake if you’re going to call someone at least do them the courtesy of answering when they pick up the pho-”

“The lights…”

“Sorry?”

“The lights, John.”

“What about them?”

“They’re so…beautiful. Where do lights go when they die?”

“Look, can we talk about this later? I’m kind of busy right now, have to unpack. Listen, I’m going to miss dinner. A couple of friends from the convention want me to go out-”

“We turn them on when we come home, turn them off when we leave. It’s like work, you know, the lights they…they have a duty to fulfill just like we humans do. It’s work. When we die our bodies are put into a coffin and shoved underground, out of sight but rarely out of mind for most people, that is. When the flame has died the bulb and the match together are thrown in a bag and sent to a landfill. But what of the **_light_**?”

“I don’t understand. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I don’t believe in religion – it’s all psychosomatic hypnotism, one delusion of martyr-based subservience fueling the other. And I know the science behind electricity and flame, John, you know that. Something’s wrong with me – nothing’s wrong with me. But you…you all would like to believe that there’s life after death. What life is there for the blue glow of the Ferris wheel after it has served its purpose, hypothetically? It must reincarnate or spend the rest of its days in heaven or hell, too. After all….if a docile pedestrian like you can go to heaven, surely a light can, too. Or does no one mourn phosphorescence once it burns out? Is that how it works?”

“Sherlock, I’m coming. _Where are you?!_ ”

“I’ve only ever been an illumination in the dark.”

#

                Bobby stood in the doorway of 221 Baker Street, her arms spread possessively around the wooden edge of the door frame. She tried to stand still but every once in a while her blue eyes would shift and quick as a flash the rest of her head would follow. The passing adults smiled in wonder at the small child in the doorway, some even stopped to say hello or inquire as to what game she was playing but she had no eyes for them and the most that she would do was swat them away or kick out with her bare feet. She was on a _case_.

                Somewhere in the flat Mrs. Hudson was chattering gaily as if she were speaking to Bobby but really she had gone off on a tangent. The smell of citrus and crepes wafted from the kitchen and Bobby’s stomach churned in response but she couldn’t lose the scent. In order to be a detective like Sho-lock she had to stay focused.

                “Breakfast is ready, love!” Mrs. Hudson sang and Bobby fidgeted. She couldn’t resist the adoring charm of Mrs. Hudson (Missus John said that she spoiled her) but more often than not the result of her summoning included too many kisses and hair tousling. Sho-lock was the only person who was allowed to tousle his own hair and, accordingly, Bobby wanted to follow suit with her own sparse wisps.

                A movement across the street caught her eye. A flash of eyes, a grin then a small body dashed from behind a trashcan to the alcove of a neighboring store. Bobby screamed, “Yuto is hiding in front of the store!” and immediately several small children exploded from every corner of the street and rushed towards the shop where the young boy was hiding. Screeching, he narrowly avoided the broom of the shopkeeper and ran through the streets as the young children chased after him, inspired by Bobby’s screeched goading.

                “There! There! Get him, Daniel! Get him, Sammy! Go, go, go!”

                Yuto rounded the corner, his comrades close behind and just like that her friends were out of sight, leaving her with the boring adults passing by on their way to work. She suddenly felt very irritable and at first she thought that it was because she couldn’t follow after them (Sho-lock had encouraged her mingling with the street children, missus John had absolutely forbidden it) but, upon turning to face the other way, she noticed a man staring straight at her. Irritated, she stuck her tongue between her teeth and whipped her head away. The man jumped and, after a moment’s hesitation, crossed the street towards her.

                “Hello.” He said when he was standing only a few feet away. She ignored him and continued to scan the street for her friends. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

                She decided that it was a good time to employ a phrase that she had heard missus John mutter to Sho-lock when the latter had been bad.

                “I’LL PUT YOU IN A BODY BAG AND WHIP YOU!”

                The man laughed. His voice was curious and deep. “Quite the cheeky lass, aren’t you? You got that from your daddy?” She was silent. “Oh, you don’t have to be scared of me! I’m a friend of Sherlock’s. How’s he doing? Still solving cases, is he?”

                “Sho-lock is a come salting detective. He’s _always_ on the case.”

                “ _Really?_ ” The man glanced at someone across the street and stuck his hands in his pockets. “And…and what case is he solving now?”

                Bobby thought back to the previous night when she had spilled her juice on the floor. Crawling under Sherlock’s desk to wipe it up she had spotted a yellow sticky note that had fallen from some place. The words had looked deliciously important to her and she had spent the next half hour trying to decipher them in her best detective voice. She spoke them now, feeling intelligent and important as she did, “a web of deh-seet.”

                “A web of deceit…” the man paused, his brown eyes eyeing her hungrily. The other children appeared around the corner, tumbling, crashing and calling her name. The man stiffened then suddenly, digging in his pocket he pulled out a small matchbox full of green glitter. “Don’t tell Sherlock or John that we spoke here, okay? Shh, it’s our little secret.”

                Stuffing the matchbox in her hand, he turned and walked away quickly. Bobby watched just long enough to see him pull a cell phone from his pocket before her attention was caught by her approaching friends.

#

                John could never cease to be impressed with how much stuff people could own. Having come from a moderate amount of money in his youth he could understand the concept of luxury and, at times, doing-without. But as he gazed around the living room of the Taylor estate he realized that it was entirely possible for some people to be ignorant of meaning of luxury and doing-without at the same time. Every object seemed to tout with the pride the fact of the Taylor’s wealth: from the polished anchor above the mantelpiece to the gilded cutlery mounted tastelessly on floral-patterned walls. He felt as if he had stepped into a toy box crammed with the sort of odds and ends that had been stolen from museums and Pier 1 warehouses alike. Still, he tried to observe everything with an objective eye. ‘You see but you do not observe.’ Isn’t that what the man sitting beside him had informed him countless times? He would just have to prove him wrong, he decided, and the Taylor mansion was the perfect place to do it. The only problem was he just could not observe anything worth an extra bit of investigation. The Taylors were filthy rich, that’s all that he could observe. And yet, he was sure, Sherlock had probably unraveled every sin, addiction, and tendency of the residences of the house simply by looking at the dining room window.

                The woman that sat before them was not especially attractive and the sun that fell in from the various windows did nothing to illuminate any redeeming features that she might have had. On the contrary, she looked rather washed out and sickened by the whole ordeal. She fidgeted ceaselessly, now reaching up to fiddle with her necklace, now rearranging the teacups on the table. As she spoke her voice quivered with such intensity that John was sure that she would start crying any minute.

                “Missy was a _good girl_ ,” she was saying as she twisted John’s teacup in its saucer, “everybody loved _her_. Never got into trouble before she met Jonathan. But it was _there_ , nonetheless, I sensed it. The badness. I always thought that she had the _potential_ to become like one of them, the baddies, I mean. And then she went and got herself burned up and everybody loved her tenfold because she was dead. If _I_ died that wouldn’t happen to me. Did she tell me about the night when she went to make amends with Jonathan? _No_. She never _talked_ to me about that sort of stuff. We weren’t _especially_ close, bonded only by blood, you know? But she _was_ my sister and I _suppose_ I loved her very much, deep down inside beneath all this…thickness. I don’t _want_ to talk about it. Forcause she’s probably in heaven right now _listening_ to everything that I’ve got to say. At least she’s _there_ and not _here_ , you know? Happy. But maybe she misses me up there.

                “I’m sure she does-”

                “Where did you get that necklace?”

                “ _Sherlock_ …”

                Monica Taylor quickly put her hand over her breasts, shielding the simple amber pendant from Sherlock’s eyes. If ever there was a time for sensitivity that time was now but, as to be expected, Sherlock had missed that chapter of the social interactions book.

                “How do you mean?” Monica asked in a suddenly high-pitched voice.

                “The necklace. Who gave it to you?”

                “My grangran,” she said, her eyes flickering curiously to John’s face, “Out of _all_ the people in the _world_ she _loved_ my sister and I very much which is not saying much for me because no one really…you know.”

                “I’m sure that’s not-”

                “Why did she give it to you and not Missy?”

                “ _Sherlock, for god’s sake…_ ”

                “Oh, I don’t know. Do we _have_ to talk about it? Grangran was a very sweet person. I can’t say how her _fan-tas-tic_ little mind worked. Some say she still lived in the era of the old days. Charming, I think. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in the old days? More tea, gentleman?” Without waiting for a response Monica picked up the silver tray and carried it, full cups and all, into the kitchen. The two men waited in silence, one tapping his foot restlessly while the other sat with his hands clasped respectfully in his lap.

                “Did you see how she responded to the necklace?” Sherlock asked, finally breaking the silence.

                “Yes. And I also saw how she responded to the subject of her dead sister.”

                “Yes, suspicious, isn’t it? She’s distancing herself. Jealous-”

                “Mm, no.” John said quickly. “She’s grieving.”

                Sherlock scoffed. “John, you _see_ but you do not-”

                “- observe. Yes. Thank you.” John smiled as Monica came back, balancing not one but two full trays in her arms. A cookie was in her mouth and as she set the tray before them its crumbs tumbled helplessly into her cleavage.

                “Here’s a little something extra,” she said sweetly and quickly reached for her own cup before they could take theirs.

                “Miss Taylor…Monica,” John said gently as he leaned forward. The woman froze and stared at him with big brown eyes, the cup lifted halfway to her lips. “When things started moving around in the house you said you set up cameras in different rooms but whenever you checked them you found that the footage showed nothing unusual? No one walking around in the dark?”

                “Oh yes. There _was_ someone walking around in the dark.”

                “Oh?” John exchanged a look with Sherlock. “Well, that’s very, very helpful. Heh. Can we possibly see this person in the video?”

                “No.”

                “…why not?”

                “They’re invisible.”

                “Invisible.” _Well_ , John thought as Sherlock rolled his eyes and kicked out his foot, whispering _here we go again_ to himself as he did so. “But how do you know that someone’s there if you can’t see them.”

                “Forecause I _do_!”

                “Alright. Alright, I’ll bite. Who is this person?”

                “Missy.”

                “Uh-huh. But Missy’s dead.”

                “Course. Didn’t say that she _wasn’t_ , silly. I’ve read your blogs, Mr. Watson, and in them Sherlock says that once you’ve eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, right? Well, I’ve eliminated the impossible and have come to realize that the truth is _Missy’s ghost is wanderin’ the house at night._ ”

                “Huh.”

                “So I took to staying up at night, you know, just to _watch_ and, well, I’ve never actually seen her.”

                “And on these vigilances the furniture doesn’t move?”

                “Oh no, it _does_. I just don’t see it _happen_. It’s like in the blink of an eye.”

                By this time Sherlock had gotten up and was wandering about the living room, paying particular attention to the cameras mounted on the wall. Suddenly he jumped up onto a side table that looked quite fragile in John’s eyes and gazed over the top of the camera. Monica gave a weak protest but Sherlock simply ignored her. He slid his forefinger over the top of the camera, rubbed it against his thumb, and smiled in a very self-satisfied way. He jumped down again and turned away from their host.

                “She didn’t install those cameras, they’ve been up there for years judging by the dust accumulation,” he whispered to him, “Only now have they been turned on.”

                “Meaning…what?”

                Sherlock winked. “I’ll show you.” He turned back towards Monica and clasped his hands behind his back. Standing taller than ever, his eyes turned mercilessly towards the nervous young woman his demeanor reflected his no-nonsense-or-I’ll-rip-you professionalism. “Miss Taylor, there’s no use in lying to me so, please, don’t waste my time anymore than you have already. I’ve guessed at your habitual tendencies and have found the place where they stem from. You’ve done your research and know that I have thus eliminated anything contrary to what I believe, the _impossible_ , as you said. I have only one question left in my mind and the answer will not disprove but rather clear things up as it is a point of curiosity. So tell me, kindly, when did you start drinking?”

                “Drinking? Oh _no_ , not me! I don’t _drink_ , Mr. Holmes.”

                “Really?”

                “Honest to God!”

                “Funny, your Facebook statuses put you down as a devout atheist.”

                “You’ve stalked my Facebook account?!”

                “Long-distance research. Come, John. Let’s go. It’s obvious that Miss Taylor has decided to not cooperate with the investigation.

                “Wait!” Monica jumped up and held her hands out to stop them. Large, glistening tears were pouring down her face, clumping the white powder on her cheeks and smearing her mascara. “Wait, please sit down. I _do_ drink, okay? I started when I was sixteen. _Please_ , sit down.” The two men glanced at each other and slowly moved back into their seats. Monica sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the hem of her shirt. “I _need_ you on my _side_. My _parents_ don’t believe me, Scotland Yard thinks I’m _crazy_ and – oh, it’s just so terrible!” She sat silent for a while, her throat working furiously as she swallowed, before speaking again. “But how did you _know_?”

                “Now might not be the time for that.” John said, more to Sherlock than the girl. But she shook her head wildly.

                “No, I _need_ to know, please. Mr. Holmes?”

                Sherlock paused and John almost thought that he was hesitating for her sake but all too soon the moment passed. He turned with a dramatic gestures towards a wall were a thousand pictures were hung up in different colored frames. “Pictures, pictures. Framed pictures tell everything: who’s in love with who, who is active in the family, who isn’t, who is a liar, who is a saint. Your family is a clan of proudly indulgent kleptomaniacs, that much is obvious. They have and will continue to frame every variation of a picture that they can find. Here is your sister at the beach and only an hour later a picture of her in the car. But you? Where are your life chronicles? Ah, here they are.” Sherlock plucked a framed photograph of a young black-haired girl of about fifteen from the wall. “Young adult phase, too young to be considered guilty and yet still relegated to the outskirts of the photographic swarm. A thousand pictures of the family in different phases of their lives and only a few of you at this age and younger. Something happened at the age of sixteen, something catastrophic enough for your most recent pictures to be removed here and here, only to be covered by pictures of the golden child: Missy. What happened? Well, it’s a wealthy family, wealthy families hate scandals. The Taylor’s are Catholic, you are atheist which suggests distancing on both sides. You once picked up a habit that you had trust in – they did not. The habit grew, consumed you, led to a few public disasters and suddenly you find yourself estranged.”

                Sherlock swung his finger towards her.

                “Figure implies a rather sedentary lifestyle. Judging by the other generations of beach-goers and grandmothers with an irritability for modest clothing, you are a novelty in a long line of litheness. Furthermore you’re _here_ on a workday morning while your father is at the bank and your mother is in a courthouse. Your sister was destined for the courthouse, too but you – you! – they no longer felt the need to pour money into your future career because you made it clear that you were not interested in one. The TV is programmed for shows at two pm and after for the next month, further proving the fact that you do not and do not plan to work. Your wardrobe is stylish but discordant – the slip tattered, the stockings stolen from our sister, the shirt sporting small stains unsuccessfully dabbed at with detergent. Furthermore your concealer is unsmoothed and the rest of your makeup applied in a hurry. All in all you made a desperate attempt to dress yourself up for our arrival and yet your habits suggest that you normally don’t wake until two and your interactions with privileged circles was once quite consistent but has now been diminished completely. Only one thing could cause such a specific _fall_ ,” Sherlock leaned forward and sniffed the cup that was held quivering before her lips. “Alcohol.”

                _How inconsiderately poetic_ , John thought but she had asked for an exposition. Monica was staring at Sherlock, every feature twitching, her mouth opening and closing as if she were a fish out of water. Suddenly she fell forward with a blood-curdling wail and sobbed into her hands. “Oh dear, oh dear. Sherlock, hand me the tissues.” John immediately rushed to her side and wound his arm around her shoulders. Silently Sherlock obeyed John’s command and watched as he rocked her back and forth.

                “You’re right, Mister Holmes,” she cried, “I _did_ pick up alcohol in my youth and my family _hates_ me for it. Grangran didn’t care – she said that _everybody_ is an alcoholic in life whatthough only _some_ of us pick up the bottle. Oh, if only she were _here now_!”

                “Has she passed on, then?”

                Monica sniffed. “Yes, she has. What else do you need to know?”

                “Nothing, Miss Taylor, you’ve been exceedingly helpful.” With that Sherlock took his leave with more grace than John considered him capable. After assuring the woman that they would be in touch and everything would work out well in her favor John left her with his number and many questions on her part.

                Outside he found Sherlock standing beside the black iron-wrought gate, waiting calmly for their taxi. It was a beautiful day out: the sun-whitened grass of the estate rolled with the breeze as the various heady scents from the gardenias and creepers filled the air and made John sneeze.

                “God,” John muttered and covered his nose with a handkerchief.

                “A girl like her doesn’t just pick up a habit out of nowhere.” Sherlock said to himself as a yellow taxi wound its way towards them.

                “What are you thinking?”

                “Jonathan Wright.”

                “Missy Taylor’s boyfriend?”

                Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum. They slipped into the back of the car, told the taxi driver the direction, and were soon on their way back home. John stared out of the window at the passing trees, his mind set on nothing in particular.

                “The cameras?” He said suddenly. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked at him questioningly. “You said that they had been switched on recently.”

                “Yes. They had been purchased around the same time as the mansion but hadn’t been used for years. Obviously the rest of the family does not share Monica Taylor’s belief that Missy Taylor has returned to torment her as a ghost. The night surveillance is Monica’s most recent obsession.”

                “And yet she didn’t catch anyone on camera.”

                “She did.”’

                “What?”

                “The person – this ghost – must have switched them off, erased the footage. How hard can it be when Monica drinks herself to sleep every night and wakes up in the afternoon with a foggy memory, at best.”

                “But that would imply that the person switching off the cameras has an intimate knowledge of their placement and thus the rest of the mansion.”

                “Exactly.”

                “So what are you thinking?”

                Sherlock didn’t respond immediately. He stared out of the window, watching the slipping scenery beneath his own pale reflection. The taxi driver glanced at them through the rearview mirror. “Many things,” Sherlock said, “namely what havoc our dear, sweet Bobby is wrecking upon the childcare center.”

                “Hmph,” John laughed. “She takes after you, you know, in more ways than one. I could almost believe that you two were related.”

                “I’m sure that inspires some redeeming quality in your mind, knowing that I’m relatable to a seven year old sprite.”

                “It’d do you some good. You’re not the most human at times. You treated that woman back there as if she were in an interrogative alcohol anonymous meeting.”

                “Ancient Chinese belief states that duality is what makes the world work, John.”

                “And what are you saying? That I’m the yin to your yang? The good cop to your bad cop?” John chuckled at such a romantic notion but when Sherlock turned to him his eyes were serious and suddenly _very_ focused.

                “ _Precisely_.”

                Sherlock hooked his fingers around his collar and pulled him into a kiss. At first John struggled weakly against him and then thought _why not_? He hadn’t been kissed like that since high school and, besides, the driver wasn’t complaining. _He’s getting a little show_ , John thought when his eyes flickered towards those of the driver’s in the rearview mirror. The thought filled him with deviousness and he kissed Sherlock back with rebellious abandon, feeling silly and hot at once. They kissed as the driver drove into their city, kissed as he turned the corner, kissed as he pulled his car into an idle hum. By the time they had finished both men were breathing harshly, limbs tangled, their eyes distant and hair tousled. Always the one to compose himself first, Sherlock passed a few bank notes up to the driver as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As they stepped out of the car Sherlock suddenly ducked his head back in and informed the driver that he actually wanted to exchange a slip for lesser change. Frowning deeply the driver drew out his wallet and ruffled in it for Sherlock’s cash.

                It was one of those odd moments in time when the mind suddenly becomes extra aware of little things and stores it in its memory bank, only to be released at a later, inconsequential time. John noticed the color of the stop sign on the edge of the street, the sound of the schoolchildren in uniform as the chaperone ushered them away from a homeless woman, the automotive business card in the taxi driver’s wallet that read A.J. O’Rourke, the way that Bobby’s hair was parted as she stood in the doorway beaming with Mrs. Hudson. He wasn’t consciously aware of any of this but his mind, still a prisoner of the anxieties of war, had taken it all in.

                He saw Sherlock’s face as he glanced into the man’s wallet, the closed look that the two of them shared, and then the sound of the cab as it sped away from the sound of Sherlock’s low, empty, “thank you. Good day.” Never had gratitude sounded so evil and yet the sound of Bobby’s voice pushed it from his mind. He walked towards the door and took her in his arms as she and Mrs. Hudson battled to tell him about the cookies that she had made in daycare and how it was important to get some for them when she went back in a few hours. Laughing, with Bobby in one arm and Mrs. Hudson close at his shoulder, John climbed the stairs into the tiny flat

                “Missus John? Lookit what I got!” Bobby shoved a tiny matchbox beneath his nose and he inspected it with mock-fascination. Gently, he slid the inner compartment out, closed it again, and turned it around in his palm. It was a simple red thing, probably made as an alternative flyer for some business. On the front it read Futhark’s Housing co. and on the back was a simple card tacked on it with the name Isa O’Rourke, followed by a number and an address. Something suddenly struck him as familiar about it and he realized that he had seen the name O’Rourke before. Of course! It had been the last name of their taxi driver. Nothing odd about it.

                Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He smiled at John and tossed Bobby high in the air, much to Mrs. Hudson’s alarm.

                “What was the case today?” He asked Bobby. She had found Sherlock’s deerstalker cap and was sporting it with a solemn authority. She pushed her fists into Sherlock shoulders and regarded him with a surprisingly keen eye.

                “The case of who stealed my cookie.”

                “Excellent! I expect a full report.”

                John settled into the couch and rested his chin on his palm. He would go into work later than he had told the receptionist on duty, he decided. And, perhaps, later the day after. Because the thought of being anywhere where Sherlock was not had become _quite_ depressing.

               


End file.
